Mary Padilla

by Mary Padilla

Five, seven, and five –
find profundity hidden
within brevity.

Bucket in a stream
in a Japanese garden –
it fills and then spills.

A tree limb falls down.
Once this land was cleared to farm.
These woods are old now.

Clouds look back at me
from the surface of the pond –
life is upside down

by Mary Padilla

Wisdom is worth waiting for.
We know it’s so when we look back.
Some things take time.

Since that is where the meaning lies,
Japanese aprise the cracks.
Wisdom is worth waiting for.

What is worn is what they prize.
They do not dwell on what things lack.
Some things take time.

Although the surface can belie,
true worth is what is in the back.
Wisdom is worth waiting for.

Often questions can arise
when starting on a different tack.
Some things take time.

But how is it that we surmise,
when from the summit we look back,
that wisdom was worth waiting for?
Some things take time.

by Mary Padilla

Sanctuary it was,

when you were there.

And when you were

no longer there,

you could still go back

when you needed to.

You knew she was there.

She knew you,

would see you,

and let you in

 – until she wouldn’t.

She didn’t know you.

She was there

but you weren’t,

not to her,

because by then

she wasn’t either.

She was gone,

herself no longer.

by Mary Padilla

 Everything appears under a canopy of leaves again, just as it did during the first four years of my life, when I lived at my grandmother’s house.  It was a Victorian gingerbread affair on a wooded plot, which was more of an overgrown planting than a forest.  I seldom left it in that early period, and now that I live in a geodesic dome, which we built in the middle of the woods, I seldom leave this place either.

This time of the year I spend most days outdoors in an Adirondack chair built by my grandfather, which now stands on a cliff in the backyard overlooking a pond.  This is where I do most of my work, and all I see around me is trees, though there is an adjacent meadow filled with ferns that I can glimpse through breaks in the foliage on my way to and from the house.  The setting resembles The Green Tube through which the Appalachian Trail passes in the mountains of Vermont without ever going above the tree line, in contrast to what happens in New Hampshire, where the trail winds on from one mountain top to the next.

So my perception of the world is literally colored by the leaves.  This time of year the light that filters through them is still a brilliant green—actually many different greens responding to the play of light and shadow—set against the greys of the trunks and branches below, with their contrastingly textured bark.  At this point there is just the occasional vibrant highlight, where the leaves on a particular branch have been the first to turn yellow or orange.  But in general, I am still embedded in green, as if a cosmic gel filter had been inserted over the ambient lighting to impart a verdant quality to the scene.

Six weeks from now there will be a rapid change to a golden sheen overlaying the woods.  Last summer, when we were visited by Canadian wildfire particulate, its refraction altered the light to yellow-orange, but this sudden harsh shift in the spectrum resulted in an ominously inappropriate hue.  In what now passes for ordinary circumstances, we can anticipate a honeyed quality overtaking the darker greens, which had arisen in their turn from a deepening of the rapid light green burst of spring.

The cover from the tiny early leaves that were just unfurling then had been sparse enough to allow the ephemerals to cover the ground.  These were evanescent wildflowers, a new species of which seemed to appear every day.  They flourished only until the canopy overhead became dense enough to usurp their sunlight.

But now we’re about to lose all the green as it changes to yellows and browns, with some interspersed orange bits.  The brilliant reds of the swamp maples and sumacs are largely a thing of the past around here, as we no longer experience nightly cold snaps sufficiently low to trigger that transformation.  For a week or two I will live in this changed world, enveloped in that dramatically altered golden glow.  Then, just as the intensity of sunlight is waning with the approach of the solistice, there will be a compensatory increase in its penetration.  I will see—and hear—the leaves fall, as the trees strip down to their skeletons.

They will stand then revealed as individuals, without the cloaking of interlocking greenery linking one to the next.  Their latticed structure will be more evident, as will the boulders and the fallen trunks that litter the forest floor like scattered pickup sticks.  And when the winter comes, I will be able to see between the denuded branches to glimpse the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the surface of the pond in the parts where it is free of ice.

There will be less cover for wildlife then, and the animals will be more visible even before there is any snow cover to enhance the contrast.  I will have a better chance of seeing deer stealthily approaching the pond to drink and to locate the owl I can hear hooting.  Of course, there are already those who are less circumspect about making their presence known, the raccoons and possums that come trick-or-treating to the front door at night and the squirrels that openly clamber over the trees like jungle gyms and rustle the dried leaves on the ground as they run through them.  The local song birds regularly approach the bird feeder without apparent caution.

And now so does this summer’s latest addition, a black bear that also makes periodic visits to their feeder in broad daylight, too brazen, at 250-300 pounds, to worry about being seen.  I wonder, given global warming, if he will be taking the winter off to hibernate or if he will just keep going.  It is up to us to look out for running into him, and the prospect does put a fine point on one’s general alertness.  But in the end, paying attention is what it is all about, and he merely serves as a reminder that we need to fit into the world around us, because it is not just a backdrop to our existence.  We need to step back, be still, and just experience the cyclical changes in the midst of which we live.

 

Mary Padilla:  I write to see what I think.

by Mary Padilla

 Dawn is accompanied year round by the twitter of song birds awakened by the sun as it rises over the pond.  But beyond that constant, every season has a characteristic soundscape.  Starting in late afternoon in early spring, what sounds through the woods is the strum of the peepers, the tiny frogs that make their appearance as the first of the wildflowers are popping up.  You never see them, but you do hear them, in an intense and high-pitched cacophony that lasts through the night.

In late spring they’re succeeded by the bullfrogs.  They become active as the sun begins to fall behind the tops of the trees.  Not only can you hear their hoarse croaks as they call back and forth to each other, but there are also frequent audible splashes as they jump off the rocks and partially submerged fallen trees near the shore.  There are bigger splatters too, when the turtles rise up from the mud in the bottom of the pond, where they’ve been spending the winter hibernating with the fish and the frogs, in order to thaw out on those logs, only to plop back into the water when their logs get too crowded, and they need to relocate.

The Canada geese return at this time to reclaim sectors of the pond as their territory and to find mates.  A lot of honking accompanies these rituals, together with some rather noisy takeoffs and landings.  At sunset they all splash down in the open water in the center where they will be safe for the night from their mammalian predators along the shore.  The quacking of mallards often comes from the far end of the pond, announcing their presence aurally, before they swim into view.  Fish can be heard jumping out of the water throughout the day, but the egrets and ospreys that hunt them from the shallows are silent and still—until they strike. When they lift off into flight, their deep raspy calls belie their lithe appearance.

Many of the animals are out and about most of the year except in the winter, when they estivate, or semi-hibernate.  Squirrels skitter noisily through the dried leaves and chitter as they run up and down the tree trunks and branches.  Chipmunks dash about the forest floor making their high-pitched calls, too small to rustle the leaf litter.  Snakes glide through the fallen leaves as well, but you have to listen very carefully to pick up the slithery sound they make as they pass.  Raccoons lumber about, unable to go by without having the sound of their rolling gait attract notice.  Rabbits and mice make little sound, but you can hear the calls of their predators the raptors, the screeches of the hawks by day and the hooting of the owls by night, as they hunt them.

Some of the animals show little fear and make their presence loudly known everywhere they go.  Notable among these are the snapping turtles, with their armored shells often the size of dinner plates. Their beaks are strong enough to break off the legs of waterfowl swimming in the pond as they drag their squawking prey below the surface to the tumultuous roiling of the encircling water.  They leave the pond to lay their eggs on land in the spring and make quite a racket tromping through the woods en route to finding an appropriate spot.

In autumn, if you are quite still, you can actually hear the leaves fall as they land lightly on top of each other when they hit the ground.  And in masting years, like the present one, when they are produced in abundance, there is a constant staccato of dropping acorns, like tympani in the background.  (Alternating years of feast and famine keep down the populations of chipmunks, squirrels, and deer that consume them.)  Even when you are indoors, their impact is inescapable, as it resonates when they hit the wooden roof, which acts as a sounding board.  But when you are outside, a sharp retort accompanies their collisions with objects below, one of which was forceful enough to crack the screen of my cell phone in a direct hit.

By late autumn, things quiet down in the forest as the auditory offerings of the animals thin out, and it is then that you notice the din of the insects, resonant waves of surprisingly powerful sound from invisible sources surrounding you on all sides.  Resulting from a multitude of differing fixed pitches and synchronized, repetitive rhythms, the acoustic outcome is so intense as to be nearly palpable.  Has it been there all summer but drowned out by the competition, or has it ramped up in a last-ditch effort to find a mate and do what needs to be done before the onset of the killing frost?

It seems odd that this extreme reverberation should seem so much louder to you in what would otherwise be silence than the sound of your own breath or heartbeat, but perhaps you just filter those out of your attention.  There must be a great many of these tiny creatures out there, or else they must be capable of generating incredible resonance for their size.  However they manage it, the soundscape in the woods at the close of the day at the close of fall clearly belongs to the bugs.

In winter, when the snow comes it muffles the sound, though if it has an icy crust, you can sometimes hear the crunch of a hoof breaking though.  Occasionally there will be the sharp retort of a branch overladen with ice and snow crashing to the ground.  The streams flow silently below the ice.  For the most part the signs of life are at their most subtle then, and, aside from the occasional huffing cough of a deer, you can only see, rather than hear, the animals by the tracks they leave behind them in the snow.

 

Mary Padilla:  I write to see what I think.

by Mary Padilla

Not a sensation, but a concept,
just an abstraction we concoct,
merely a means to keep what happens
from trying to go on all at once.

Though we can measure it precisely,
to experience it is not the same.
Once we look below its surface,
the when is quite a different thing.

The now is vanishingly thin,
poised between before and after,
on the cusp of evanescence,
on the verge of not forever.

While it never leaves the present,
the eternal exists but out of time,
failing to engage with either
what once was or what’s to be.

Though inexorably marking passage,
of itself it alters nothing,
as it flows on without ceasing,
soundless, its own hourglass.

All around us and within us,
though with tangible effects,
time itself remains unmoved,
as it can merely mark the change.

It is left to us to be
the ones to come to terms with it.
For in the end, time simply measures
nothing other than itself.

 

Mary Padilla writes to see what she thinks.

by Mary Padilla

What’s the matter with you?
Could this be a minor matter?
Does it actually matter if it’s true?

But then, what if you think the latter?
What if it truly does matter to you?
But just why should it matter to you?

Can you pretend that it doesn’t matter?
Or do you think that it won’t matter
if in the end you don’t want it to?

Anyway, does mattering really matter?
But just what does that actually matter,
if this is something that matters to you?

 

Mary Padilla:  I write to see what I think.

by Mary Padilla

How odd that
everything is
mostly nothing,
if you look closely.

We are accustomed
to the big picture,
the broad brush stroke,
the macro level.

But when you see
below the surface,
it’s mostly nothing,
just empty space.

Music is all about
spaces between notes.
Art is all about
spaces around things.

Everything is seen
by contrast with nothing,
which is mostly all
that there actually is.

It’s the via negativa
that defines a thing
solely in terms of
just what it is not.

The occasional somethings
deform overall nothing,
affecting other somethings,
but only at a distance.

Paradoxically, we find that
to transcend somethingness,
we must first be willing
to embrace the nothingness.

Only then can we know
what it is to be something
other than something
to be reckoned with.

There is no reckoning
with evanescence,
and yet we can be
aware of its presence.

It is something
that exists
on the cusp
of non-existence.

Similarly, meaning is
what you encounter
when you are not trying
to discover what it is.

Mary Padilla: I write to see what will come out.

by Mary Padilla

For meaning to travel
it has to start somewhere
and then go to someplace
set up to receive it.

These need to be tuned in
to the same wavelength,
and there must be a medium
that they have in common –

a sharing of context
to transmit a concept
that makes at least some sense
to both of the parties.

Of couse this is all true
of sound and of light,
but it applies just as well
to ideas and to feelings.

They too need a sender,
and also a receiver,
but communication
is still not guaranteed.

While these two elements
are both important,
they do not suffice
to create the connection.

There needs to be overlap
between expectations
so that the message
can be understood.

Otherwise
it’s just
a clash
of codes.

Mary Padilla: I write to see what will come out.

by Mary Padilla

We think we know what’s up, what’s out
what’s reflected, refracted,
what is, what’s not.
The surface bounces back the light
the same way it came in.

From here, seen there,
the medium’s a mirror.
From another angle though,
things would look quite bent,
broken, and greatly changed.

The shadow, when it’s long.
speaks to the sun,
and not the tree –
what its angle is just then
in relation to the Earth.

It functioned as our first sun dial,
telling us what time it was –
short or long, right or left,
morning, noon, or afternoon –
but never what was time itself.

What we see is what we get,
but it depends on how we look.
We need to keep this fact in mind
when, seeing just the shadows,
we have to decipher what is real.

Mary Padilla: I write to see what will come out.